Snapshot
by ryttu3k
Summary: The memories from the night before are a little hazy, but there's certainly one way to leave a lasting impression.


**Author's note:** Inspired by an incredibly cute meme response between my favourite Lysandre and Sycamore RPers on Tumblr.

* * *

There was someone breathing next to him.

Still half in the fog of sleep, deliciously warm and comfortable, Augustine Sycamore opened bleary eyes and found himself in a bedroom that he did not immediately recognise. Gaze flicking over the walls (covered in a rich red damask) and then to the foot of the bed (clean, elegant, modern lines, of the kind that could generally be found in glossy interior magazines), he exhaled softly and turned his attention to the source of the breathing next to him.

Lysandre looked unguarded, the usual seriousness of his expression smoothed away by sleep, and Augustine found himself transfixed by the calm on his face. This was an expression he had never seen on his friend - but then, he had never been in a position to see Lysandre sleeping before, either.

That, and he was no longer sure that 'friend' was the right term.

They had been drinking, he and Lysandre. A quick drink at a local bar had turned into a handful more, neither so intoxicated that they were not in control of their actions but just enough that their inhibitions may have been slightly loosened, the tension that kept them in orbit around each other and no closer evaporating and bringing them ever nearer together.

He could not remember who had kissed the other first, suspected it didn't matter that much anyway, the end result was still the same - here in Lysandre's bed, in Lysandre's room, with Lysandre sleeping beside him with an expression of peace written on his features. Augustine shifted his legs beneath the blankets and observed that they were bare, noted the slight ache as he moved, and found himself hiding a smile - there was little ambiguity of just what they had got up to the night before, then.

There was a faint shadow against Lysandre's throat in a spot that would ordinarily be covered by his shirt collar, and a grin crossed Augustine's face as he raised a hand to his own collarbone. There was an answering mark there, he knew - a memory was emerging, Lysandre lavishing attention on the spot, his hands in Augustine's hair as he sucked and licked and nipped, feverishly whispering "Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful" against his skin.

So they had slept together, he and Lysandre, and now he was naked in his bed with the man sleeping peacefully beside him. Augustine bit his lip absently - he knew his own memories of the evening were spotty, was not certain if Lysandre would remember it as well, was not even sure if he would want to. Things would change now, he was certain of it.

And yet he could remember - quite vividly - Lysandre frankly telling him how long he had wanted to do this for.

Making up his mind (and perhaps aided at least in part by the alcohol still in his system), he turned - carefully - and found Lysandre's phone on the bedside table where it had apparently been dropped the night before. Noting the time absently (not quite four in the morning, and the light through the crack in the curtains had the watery half-light of the very early hours of Lumiose City), glancing back over his shoulder at the still deeply slumbering Lysandre, he carefully started up the camera.

There was just enough light in the room for him to take a photo, himself at arm's length, his hair mussed and a smile on his lips.

Lysandre did not stir even at the click the phone made, and Augustine grinned faintly, touching two fingers to his collarbone right beneath the mark Lysandre had left and taking another. Turning back to him, he considered and then readied the phone again, his lips achingly close to Lysandre's skin but not quite touching, not yet, the promise of a kiss rather than the actual act.

Three would probably do it. Clumsily, he opened up the text messaging, attaching the three pictures and opening up Lysandre's address book. And that was curious, too - his name was not there, not under Augustine nor under Sycamore. With a frown - had Lysandre not even put his number in his phone? - he started to punch it in manually.

There it was - coming up under the label 'mon coeur'. For a long moment, he simply stared, an involuntary smile on his face.

And then he sent the three images to his own phone (the muffled beep came from somewhere between the bed and the doorway - at least he knew where his pants were, then) and set it down softly on the night stand, carefully pushing the blankets back.

It was really quite cold. The urge to crawl back into bed and curl around Lysandre like he was an oversized hot water bottle was alarmingly tempting.

Still, the space would be good - there would be time for them to both come to terms with what had happened, what this meant for them. Lysandre had the photos, he could put two and two together - if he wanted to go on from there, then he would at least know that Augustine was still interested.

With that in mind, he slipped from the bed, gathered his clothes, and carefully crept away into the night.

* * *

Lysandre awoke alone.

This was not an unusual occurrence, and yet he was fairly certain that he should have been waking up with someone beside him. Buried beneath the hangover was a memory of pleasure, of heated skin and grey eyes and - Augustine, he recalled with a suddenness that shocked him into full alertness, it had been Augustine.

They had been drinking, he had been drunk and pathetic and letting his emotions get the better of him, he had kissed him with the intensity of the needy and -

What had happened next? He could not recall save for flashes of imagery, sensory memories of skin and curls and mouths, of fingers in his hair and a body arching against his own, of heavenly whimpers and moans and _Lysandre, Lysandre, oh please, Lysandre_. It had the gauziness of a dream, the haze of feverish longing.

Had it been a dream?

Blearily, he stretched out over the empty side of the bed, the sheets cool to the touch, and grabbed his phone. Half past seven already - late enough for Augustine to have slipped out already, early enough that he still could have stayed. He never had been a morning person.

_Had_ it been a dream?

It wouldn't have surprised him. It was not the first time that Lysandre had dreamed about Augustine Sycamore.

With a sigh, he unlocked the phone and peered blearily at it for any new messages, blinking a little when he noted that while he hadn't received any, he had apparently _sent_ one - to Augustine, at four o'clock in the morning. Groaning to himself, he opened it up to see what drunken text he had sent, and -

Oh.

Well.

That was not what he had been expecting, and he found himself taking in every detail - Augustine's tousled curls, the mark on his collarbone, the sleepy contentment in his eyes, the almost-kiss, and he raised his fingers to the mark on his throat. He had been here, he had really been here and he had left his mark, and here was tangible evidence of the night before (and if the smile on Augustine's lips was any indication, it had not been unwelcome).

His hands shaking, he carefully typed in a message.

_Just saw the pictures you left in my phone._ He hesitated, just for a moment, and added, _Thanks for reminding me that last night was not a dream._

Lysandre hit the send button before he could talk himself out of it, and sat back with the phone in his hands and a faint smile on his face.

It hadn't been a dream, then, and he had both physical and photographic evidence of such, even if his memories were still patchy and incomplete. But from what he could remember - oh, they were good memories (and actual memories, not a dream, not a dream at all!), and perhaps - perhaps there would be a chance to do so again, the opportunity for a future, things changing but not necessarily for the worse.

The phone beeped, and he glanced down automatically.

_It was a good night! I hope you like the photos._ Lysandre stared at the message in consternation at its brevity, then started as a second message came through - _Want to do that again, but sober?_

A laugh startled out of him at the sheer bluntness of the request, Lysandre hastily punched in a reply - _I'll come by and see you at the lab after work_ - and sent it off. And then he stretched, swinging his legs out of bed, humming tunelessly under his breath as he started to get ready.

It was going to be a good day.


End file.
